an calma roimh an stoirm,
an calma roimh snamh mé,
an calma roimh a athrú mé isteach san fharraige

L.J. Ni Leanacháin

Happy St. Patrick’s Day… This is a monumental day for me because my blog has reached 5,000 followers… To celebrate the achievement and the day that is in it I have translated one of my poems into the Irish Language… Enjoy!

Like this:

Weary from lack of interest in today’s activity…
My thoughts drift to the picket fence that is erected,
to separate civilization and God’s magnificent Cliff’s of Moher,
Atlantic waves rage against the cliffs six miles below, rain and wind turns my soft hair into leather whips abusing my face.
Young lovers overwhelmed by the superiority of the cliffs,
silently declare a difficulty free future,
sealing their future opportunities with a kiss.
*sigh*
Cynical thoughts are banned from this daydream.

An opening in the gates to the cliffs catches my attention,
a small sign from The Samaritans,
‘If you need help call now’
I think to myself, if someone is reading this sign,
it is already too late.

A light house behind me and the young lovers,
with a crazy old Santa standing out front, wearing a spaghetti strainer hat,
he repeats, ‘end of humanity’
mumbling in between, ‘I told you so’
I wonder what Santa might be able to tell me about my future.

A young girl of three screams with discomfort,
her mother obviously troubled tries to calm her,
extras look on with disgust.
Accusing the small child of ruining the moment,
Haughty over their entitlement to a quiet view.

Three euro to walk to the top of the light house.
I have the ability to walk, but only two euro left,
after parking and the chocolate bar I bought for energy,
to get to the top,
I consider the unreasonableness of man levying a view.

A man in a wheel chair arrives at the cliffs,
a young man and woman out of breath, from pushing him up the steep hill,
no money can pay for that man’s legs.
I think about the luxury of walking to the top,
and what it must be like to envy that basic right.

Since 1890, Ireland’s Gaelic mother has been supporting football,
Eagerly anticipating, her offspring’s contribution in Spring’s competition,
Origin of sport, boasts from the sideline, ‘my lad is first port of call!’
19th century Gaelic mother’s never thought Gaelic Games would be permissioned.

Mothers shed tears in defeat but also delight, when their boys brought home silver,
Another chance for pride started in 1970s, when the Ladies got playing,
Every mother, wanted GAA to teach their teenage athlete how to be a leader,
Busy washing contents of gear bags, chauffeuring matches, she never noticed her hair greying.

But now Gaelic mothers are in the 21st century, role of supporter has metamorphosed to player,
Taking time to display their talents as forwards, backs, midfielders, goalkeepers and substitutes,
Contemporary Gaelic mothers brought in a few others, for a bit of craic over the summer,
Wearing hearts on their boots, Gaelic mothers show off knowledge of their traditional roots.

In thirty two counties, mothers have burst on to Gaelic football fields with love,
Of the sport they created over a century ago…

Cherry blossoms control their bloom,
Waiting for delicate innocence,
Impregnating the mass with awe of pink beauty,
Bursting extravagance,
Seducing the unexpected,
With mystery,
Captivating the unanticipating,
Astonishing with a startling show of colours,
The flowers will blow,
Suddenly the colours will go,
Those most enamoured,
Bewildered by the sacrifice.

Elegant smile imprisoned;
The warden, consumed, with jealousy.
Adverse events; gifts of her birth.
Escaped for a day; to the family embassy,
Returned, for lack of worth.
Children, she bore, because of necessity –
Their home, absent of gaiety and mirth.
Accusations of a lover – expelled him immediately.
Her children grew; burdened from her demise,
Accepting it, meekly.
Finally, freeing her, giving rebirth;
All she could say was, ‘Is the tyrant dead?’